


The Same Coin

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Beatles are getting very laid. For the prompt: 'NSFW McLennon and Starrison (either in one or separate)'.</p><p>DO NOT USE VASELINE AS LUBRICANT WITH A CONDOM AS PETROLEUM JELLY WEAKENS THE LATEX AND THE CONDOM CAN BREAK (IT IS USED IN THIS FIC AS I DOUBT THEY WOULD KNOW BETTER).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Same Coin

**Author's Note:**

> DO NOT USE VASELINE AS LUBRICANT WITH A CONDOM AS PETROLEUM JELLY WEAKENS THE LATEX AND THE CONDOM CAN BREAK (IT IS USED IN THIS FIC AS I DOUBT THEY WOULD KNOW BETTER).

They were two sides of the same coin.

It was only natural, wasn’t it, with the four of them so close, that lines would get crossed, but the lines intersected so neatly that the four of them could scarcely believe it. It was never discussed – that wouldn’t be right, would it, but they all knew.

Paul got John, and George got Ringo.

And that really was the way around it was – Paul was the possessive one, and John the one willing to be possessed, needy and desperate for the love that Paul deigned to bestow. And George, of course, had Ringo, like a birthday present that you never expected, a Christmas gift of a diamond necklace or a car, and Ringo was delighted that George would want to have him with all the amazement of the last puppy at the pound.

* * *

Paul pushes John up against the wall and bites at his lower lip, and John lets him, feeling Paul’s heartbeat as his hands splay out over his chest, whimpering as the icy control he has over himself, his band, his persona slips away and he shows the weakness beneath – no, not weakness. The fragility. Paul’s control-freak nature compliments him the way that nothing ever could, especially during sex.

“Have yeh got… y’know,” Paul whispers against John’s mouth, knowing he will. They both fuck girls – they have a reputation to maintain, of course, at least until they’re done touring, whenever that may be. John nods, and Paul leans over to make sure the door is locked as John heads for the bedside drawer of their tiny hotel room. Once he’s sure they’re safe, Paul lounges on the bed and watches as John grabs a condom. He’s slightly bent over, and God, does Paul love that arse.

“What do you want?” he asks casually, and John shrugs. This is the hard part – getting out of John what he wants. John’s a little in denial – swears it’s only because it’s Paul. “Nothing?”

“Never said that, did I?” John replies, and Paul rolls onto his back.

“Do you want to fuck me?” he asks – in his voice it sounds like poetry – and he sees John’s body stiffen. “Or d’yeh want me to fuck you?” John’s cheeks are a little pink – with a girl, he’s a silver-tongued demon, with Paul, he’s a shy schoolboy – and Paul grins. “I’ll fuck you, then…”

“Please,” John breathes, and Paul smiles, a real, pure happy smile. That’s the John he wants. One who’s comfortable to be himself with him.

“Get ‘ere then,” he smirks, and John sits on the edge of the bed, flipping the condom between his fingers. “Get that bloody shirt off as well…” He slides his hand underneath to run his fingers over John’s smooth chest, kissing his neck, and John finally properly relaxes into his touch, allowing Paul to pull him down onto the bed and straddle him. “Actually, yeh can wait.” He smirks, and John pouts a little, smile crossing his face as Paul begins to unbutton his shirt, making sure to grind down against John’s crotch as he does so. John is already slightly hard, and Paul is becoming so as he watches John watching him.

“Fuck, Paulie,” John says hoarsely, and Paul winks. “Yer gorgeous.” Paul finishes unbuttoning his shirt and stretches, feeling John’s rough, warm fingers against his chest as he does so – John loves to explore Paul’s body with his hands, and Paul is grateful, a lot of the time, that John is a guitarist. Although he’d never shatter the facsimile of iron self-control he has, John can play him just as well as that Rickenbacker. “Gi’s a kiss…” Paul leans down and as their lips meet again he feels warmth spread through his body everywhere they touch. He’s pretty sure he’s in love with John, but catch him admitting that.

He wriggles down John’s body and pulls open his pants, feeling under his hand that John is very hard by now, and slides his hand inside, stroking the other man gently. Sometimes he cannot believe that he is doing this – John’s public persona is so very straight that it feels like sticking your head in a lion’s mouth, that any minute John could snap and go mad at him – but John does nothing except lounge back, eyes like obsidian, and watch, jaw a little slack.

Paul pulls John’s pants down to his knees – he won’t be needing them any more tonight – and goes back to stroking him. John knows what’s coming next – hopefully, him. Paul kisses John’s thigh gently, making his leg twitch a little at the light, ticklish touch, and then, using talent that God-only-knew-where he learned it, takes John into his mouth entirely, making John grip onto the bedcovers and moan faintly. John has yet to explain how Paul looks so good with his mouth around his cock, but he definitely hasn’t found a bird that pretty.

“God, Paulie,” John breathes, and Paul swirls his tongue around him, eyes fixed on the older man as he takes him to the back of his throat again. “F-fuck…”

“Tell me if yer close,” Paul murmurs before spitting on his palm and beginning to stroke John as he licks him almost daintily. It isn’t quite enough to get John off, which is what Paul is counting on, and he enjoys watching as a faint flush rises above John’s collar, spreading its way up his neck and across his cheeks.

“Fuck, Paul,” John moans, and Paul finds himself grinding his hips against the bed for a little relief – John looks so good splayed out, whining his name, that he just wants to touch himself, but he resists. The end reward will be so much sweeter. “I-I’m-”

Paul takes his mouth off of John, and the annoyed grunt from the frontman makes him laugh as he sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. John glares at him, and Paul winks, before crawling up his body and beginning to undo John’s shirt. John arches his hips against him, achingly sensitive, and Paul shakes his head.

“Come on, Johnny. It’ll feel way better this way,” he coos, and John grits his teeth.

“Bloody _fairy_ way of doing it…” he says plaintively, the irony not escaping him at all, and Paul grins as he pulls his shirt off. “Come on, Paulie…”

* * *

Across the hall, the situation is the same, but yet somehow very, very different.

George and Ringo are down to their underwear, entangled like somebody has plaited them together, the guitarist lying atop the smaller, older man. They do not need the fire and burn that keep Paul and John explosive. Those two fell in lust before their minds even met – George and Ringo were in love before skin touched skin. Neither path is the right way – both are just separate paths to the same destination.

George shivers just as a little as their hips grind together slowly, both painfully hard, and Ringo kisses along his angular jaw, feeling George’s fangs against his skin as his lips part ever so slightly so he can breathe against Ringo’s cheek.

“Need yeh…” George murmurs in Ringo’s ear, and Ringo nods, square fingers tracing over George’s sharp hipbones where his underwear have ridden down. “Touch me? Please? Ringo?” They’ve already tried Richard. It was weird.

“…do you wanna?” Ringo asks, the words passing between them without being said, and George shakes his head.

“Just touch me,” he says softly, and Ringo nods, fingers already inside George’s boxers and wrapping around his erection. George hisses air in between his teeth, and begins to thrust into Ringo’s fist gently, even as his own hands find their way into Ringo’s briefs. He can feel the bass rumbles of the drummer’s moans in his chest, and splays his spare hand out to stroke through Ringo’s chest hair. He is comfortable with this. Happy, he would go as far to say.

“Georgie…” Ringo’s eyes are such a brilliant colour that George cannot look into them for too long, and he feels himself smile for a moment – and then he gasps as Ringo strokes him a little harder. “You okay?”

“Yeh…” George breathes, and Ringo threads his fingers through his dark hair, smiling as George presses his lips to his collarbone. They don’t really need to speak – they are together, and they know what each other wants. Ringo’s free hand goes from his hair to his cheek, and pulls him into a kiss again, heart pounding as he opens his eyes and sees George’s long eyelashes, faint freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose. The man looks like art, he thinks dreamily.

“I love yeh,” George says, faintly, and Ringo’s heart flutters, before he pushes him over so he is on top. “…!”

“Can I?” Ringo asks softly, and George hesitates for only a moment before nodding, and Ringo pushes himself up, before grinning down at him. George smiles as well, and the mood goes from deep and romantic to a little more playful in a heartbeat; Ringo leans over, and grabs a condom from the side. He’s sure they should sleep with other people to maintain some kind of secrecy, but neither of them can bring themselves to – Brian hasn’t asked about the condoms in their room, anyway. Maybe he knows, and turns a caring but blind eye.

“Have yeh got… you know,” he says, a little fright in his voice, and Ringo nods, before double-checking the cupboard. Yes, they have – the jar of Vaseline is probably infinitely harder to explain, but they keep it hidden – as well hidden as they can, anyway.

“It’s okay, Georgie. We don’t have to-”

“I wanna. It just… hurts,” George says, uncomfortably, and Ringo kisses him again.

“Then don’t.”

“But I wanna.”

Ringo rolls his eyes, and George wraps his arms around him, smiling a little despite his nerves; as Ringo pulls his underwear down and kisses down George’s stomach to the fine, curly hairs that start just below his navel.

“I’ll try an’ be careful,” he says quietly, and George nods – that’s all there is to say, really, and so Ringo shucks off his own pants, and as he slides the condom on, he sees George’s eyes fixed on him ablaze, the deep brown almost chestnut in the hotel lighting. He grabs the Vaseline and coats his fingers, before placing them at George’s entrance. “Ready?” he asks, and George closes his eyes.

“Go on,” he says, and Ringo slides one finger into him – practise has made this easier, but George still tenses and mutters a word that, to anybody outside of Liverpool, would likely be gibberish. “Ah…”

“It’s okay,” Ringo says soothingly, and George glares at him.

“I’ll decide what’s okay, lad,” he mutters, and wriggles a little. “Go on.” Ringo slides another finger into him, and this time, George moans under his breath, although he still grimaces as Ringo spreads him. Ringo takes his time – he has to know George is okay, and when he finally nods, he’s careful to make sure he’s slick enough to push inside him with barely a twinge, and as George’s legs wrap around his waist, he holds himself back from thrusting into him until he gets the signal – George’s long fingers gently stroking down his back.

Ringo has always been sure that the part of sex he would always concentrate on was the fact he was inside someone else – it seemed a bit obvious, really. But when he’s fucking George, that is, suddenly, the least important thing; nothing matters compared to the way George pants in his ear, that high-pitched, almost winded inhalation – the way that George’s limbs close around him to keep him as close as he can – the way that George’s left cuspid just pokes out over his lips, like a very small vampire, when he grits his teeth and moans. He wonders idly what George is thinking of, and would undoubtedly be very surprised to find it is very much the same thing, about the blue of Ringo’s eyes, the fiercely-determined way they squint a little as he concentrates, the way he almost unconsciously _knows_ how to support George’s body as they tangle together like this. Ringo doesn’t think he has anything to notice, and, were they not otherwise busy, George would delight in proving him wrong.

“Ringo…” George mumbles, eyes drifting shut, and Ringo can tell he’s hitting the spot inside the other man that makes his knees buckle – he doesn’t know what it is but he’s definitely grateful for it – and kisses his neck gently, not wanting to break George’s concentration on that feeling. “Ringo, r-right like that, there…”

Ringo doesn’t reply, just keeps thrusting, and as George’s hands grip firmly in his hair he closes his eyes and lets everything overwhelm him. He never expected this, but God, it’s good, and the fact that he can feel he’s curling his toes to keep from spilling into George makes this easily the best sex he’s ever had with anyone, and he knows if he opens his eyes and sees George reacting to being fucked he’s going to just topple from the edge he’s dallying on and…

George moans something about being close, heels digging into Ringo’s lower back, and Ringo realises that sight is only one sense and indeed, sound is very important too, and as he buries his face in George’s neck, jaw clenched, desperate to just keep a hold of himself until George has cum, he feels nails dig into his scalp.

“George,” he breathes, and George whines in reply as Ringo feels cum stripe itself across his stomach; he tightens around him, and Ringo can’t help it – he cums so hard he actually goes light-headed and nearly falls on top of George, arm almost giving out, and it is a few seconds before he realises George has a death grip on him and shakes his head, feeling pins and needles where George’s apparent claws have cut off the blood flow to his head.

“Yeh know,” George pants, and Ringo looks at him muzzily, “yeh keep great time.” Ringo’s jaw actually drops, and then he starts to laugh, before squeezing George’s hand.

“I’m gonna…” He pulls out, and George winces for a moment, limbs and another places aching, before Ringo sits up. As he pulls off the condom, the two of them hear thudding, and freeze.

“Is that…”

“…McLennon?”

“God, at least we’re not that obvious,” George gripes.

* * *

“Oh god, Paulie…”

John moans, and Paul leans forward and runs his fingers through John’s hair before pulling a little as he thrusts into him again. Red stripes run down John’s back, Paul taking out his latent aggression and also enjoying the way it makes John tighten around him.

“Johnny,” Paul mumbles, pushing his own fringe out of his eyes. He’s so close, and John, flushed red, on all fours and sweating like a whore in church – with a similar vocabulary – isn’t helping. He reaches down to touch John, and gets a little satisfaction out of John’s needy whine. John _needs_ him. “Come on…”

“Paulie, I-I’m…” John rests his head against the cool blanket, feeling every inch of his body reacting to what’s happening – there’s something about the feeling of forbiddenness, that they shouldn’t be doing this, that makes his skin prickle and his stomach clench. “Paulie, fuck, I’m…”

“Come for me, Johnny,” Paul stammers, feeling himself lose control and praying that John is close enough for that not to matter, and as he stills, head thrown back and sweat beading down his spine as he cums deep inside John, he keeps stroking him, and John follows half a second later, spitting out words that would make fans’ jaws drop in horror – if what had caused them hadn’t already.

Paul leans back, allowing John to collapse to the bed, and pulls the condom off, throwing it at the bin and not really caring if it misses, before curling up to John, who is still red and panting.

“Bed’s a sight,” he mutters, and John nods at the other one. “Ey, you don’t get to fuck on your bed an’ mess it up then nick mine…”

“What’s yours is mine, lad,” John mutters, back to himself already, but he pulls Paul close and listens out. Silence. “What do you reckon Starrison are up to?”

“Knittin’ circle. Crochet.” Paul’s voice is already sleepy, and John sighs, pushing him towards the other bed and grabbing a t-shirt to mop up with. “Book club, maybe.”

“We should wash or somethin’,” John murmurs, but Paul has grabbed the other t-shirt and is dabbing at himself as he already pulls the bedcovers around his waist. “Grotty, lad.” Paul is the opposite of that word, he thinks to himself, but he’d never say it aloud. He doesn’t need to, he thinks happily as Paul falls asleep in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> DO NOT USE VASELINE AS LUBRICANT WITH A CONDOM AS PETROLEUM JELLY WEAKENS THE LATEX AND THE CONDOM CAN BREAK (IT IS USED IN THIS FIC AS I DOUBT THEY WOULD KNOW BETTER). Yes, I know this is everywhere on this fic, but I refuse to be responsible for sexual ill-health and malpractice.


End file.
